When the Capitol prospers
by AvidImagination
Summary: A look into the life of a young thief attempting to raise his three younger sisters after the horrors of the Uprising. What would be left if the Capitol had won, and the districts fallen?


**Hi everyone! This is my first ever attempt at fan-fiction so I hope you enjoy. I would love to hear what you guys think and what you think I could improve. Also, if you could point out any grammatical errors that would be a big, big help! (Note I speak UK English, not US) Thank you so much for reading:-)**

**_A wise man can learn more from a foolish question than a fool can learn from a wise answer~ Bruce Lee._**

The ear-splitting screams of a jabber jay stir me from my restless sleep.

"No..No! Please! Not me... It wasn't me!" The desperation, deprivation and defencelessness of the spokesperson is immediately clear. When you hear sounds like that...well it's no wonder we don't sleep.

The jabber jay's are a reminder from the capitol of what they did, what they can do again. They were a mutation created by the capitol to listen in on conversations in the districts and then report back to those with the power to punish. Now, they are not a weapon but a tool. The capitol ensured that each desperate plea, each cry for help and scream for vengeance was carefully recorded with the intention to make it into a sort of soundtrack for the districts. The message is clear: _Listen to what he did. Anticipate what we won't hesitate to do again. Fear us._

Each evening, I plunge into the depths of sleep with the promise of nightmares. Each morning, I awake to the soprano of death and suffering. All this, all this for the sake of twenty four tributes. This horror, the horror that befalls every single slave of each of the remaining nine district's, is all a direct result of the errors our ancestors made. They fought back.

Instead of accepting the capitol's control, instead of sending away just twenty four tributes each year to fight to the death, they risked everything only to fail. They did not think of their future generation, they did not consider the impact of their actions. They thought only of the present and what the death of their brother, sister, son, daughter would do to them in the immediate future. This is the explanation I have been given since the day I was old enough to understand. This is the explanation that the Capitol has used to defend themselves. This is the only explanation that keeps us going. Because we read between the lines. We know that no game demised by the capitol would drive them to such lengths. Offering up the odd tribute each year isn't enough to explain the fight contained in every single one of our ancestors. No, to have such strength, such bravery, such resentment, more must of happened.

Once, when I was around the age of 12, I heard an old man in the square mouthing off about the Capitol. He looked drunk, or just crazy, but still his desperation to expel his knowledge was clear. For a solid five or ten minutes he rambled about the starvation, the cold, the infection, disease and loss he experienced as a young boy in the 'Seam' of District 12. He explains the clear divide between the rich and the hungry. He carefully describes the mine explosions that resulted in the death of thousands. He explains how the Games were not seen merely as a lesson but as a threat. A warning that the Capitol were not afraid to punish.

He recites how he watched his father bleed to death after an explosion in the mines and his mother fall ill shortly after. The final judgement was that she died of pneumonia but no one was fooled. The sharp panes of her angular face, the illusion of skin stretched across high cheekbones and a dainty jaw. The half-ravaged look in her eyes when her eldest son, Raemar hauled home his measly tesserae grains for the family. She had starved to death, just as her three sons soon would. He didn't mention what happened to his brother Raemar, but he did recall how his other brother, Jon, was whipped to death after he attempted to go apple picking one year in the meadows.

The whole population of district 7 had accumulated around by this time but the old man continued, undeterred by his vast audience. He began to gesture with his hands, suggesting words weren't powerful enough to even hint at his pain. He hung his head in grief as he spoke of his friends, neighbours, his entire community was picked off during a particularly messy battle. His ragged hair hung, limp and tangled- a mere suggestion at his unkempt nature. His sunken eyes and old, sagging skin suggested that he was around 87. This was a grand age in times like these and his fragility was clear as he spoke to the hundreds of villagers now gathering around. This didn't deter the bullet that ruptured his forehead, straight between the eyes.

Shaking the image from my head, I wrenched myself out of bed and pulled on my 'theft boots', as Lae so often called them. The supple fabric's gentle pressure did little to calm my nerves. The butterflies fluttered in my stomach just like every other morning; experience did nothing to quench them. I strode over to the table, took the last apple from the fruit bowl that Lae had so carefully picked and played with it, rolling it over and over in my palm whilst listening intently. Silence. Such a welcome sound after the brutal ballad of the jabber jay's calls. Satisfied that my sisters remained in the safety of slumber, I slipped from the house into the cool morning frost.

To be continued...

**Thanks again for reading and please, please leave me a review with your brutally honest opinions:-)**


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